Look at the flowers, I say more often than I realize. I point them out to you on walks and drives, at parks and beaches, in paintings and photos, along windowsills and in grocery stores. I describe the color and shape, the texture of the petals, the way they grow off of the sides of mountains and in the cracks of the sidewalk. I will you to notice them everywhere you go.
Look at the flowers, I urge you, over and over again.
I feel a visceral need to keep showing you flowers, as if, if I continue to point them out, that somehow that’s all you’ll see of the world. Flowers. And fluffy clouds that paint the sky with shapes. Or the way the sunlight glitters off of the road in the wake of afternoon rain.
Maybe if I keep pointing out flowers, you won’t see the devastation. The hate. The death and destruction. All of the things we feel determined to change but secretly wonder if we actually can.
Maybe if I keep showing you flowers, you won’t see the injustice. The cruelty. The systems built to beat people down, to regard one as better than another. All of the many, many ways people break each other.
Maybe if you know there are flowers, you won’t see your rights being stripped away by a trigger-happy Court—voting rights, Miranda rights, abortion rights, concealed carry restrictions, separation of church and state—all in a gut-wrenching week. Maybe you won’t see the regression of your country. The transformation of the land you love from a hopeful experiment into a place where fear runs rampant.
Look at the flowers, I want to yell at you so you won’t see the rest.
The world is so hard and I’m running out of ways to keep you soft.
Look at the flowers, you used to screech at me when you were toddlers, bobbing down the street the way only toddlers can. Innocent and uncoordinated all at once. But lately, your gait resembles that of a teenager and you don’t often notice the flowers. You see the other things.
And I can’t stop it anymore.
Two days after a gunman wreaks havoc on a parade in Highland Park, a town we lived next to for the last nine years, we pack you all up and head to Alaska to explore. I bury my grief and swallow it deep into the pit of my stomach so you won’t see a trace. There it sits, mixing with bile, churning gently and recklessly all at once, threatening to come up at any moment. The image of blood-drenched sidewalks and the wake of terror is seared onto my brain and I force myself to see just about anything else. The blueness of the sky from the airplane window, the snowcapped mountains we fly over, the sun washing the world in gold.
I strain, urgently, to see the flowers.
We land in Anchorage and as we wait for our luggage, you all play around the baggage claim area. Of course, you find something to read—the front page of the Anchorage Daily News peeking out from the newspaper vending machine. I visibly cringe watching you take it in.
“This newspaper has a funny headline,” you look at me confused. “It says there was a shooting at a parade in Highland Park, Illinois. That’s where we used to live. And then this other headline says that the shooter bought guns even though police knew he was a troublemaker.” You give me a quizzical look. I’m supposed to have an answer. A reason. An explanation of why something like this could happen.
I have nothing.
And though I know we’ll have to talk about it, I can’t. Not yet. Not in that moment, not that day, not in the days to follow. Not without the grief jumping into my throat every time my mouth opens to say a word. I’m sorry. You need to know, I know. But I can’t tell you just yet.
Instead, I turn away from the newspaper.
Look at the flowers, I say, pointing to the fireweed just outside the window. There are so many of them, I tell you, pointing out the obvious, making sure you know.
Look at the flowers, please, I beg you silently, pleading with your little heart to sense the intent of mine.
Look at all of these flowers, I remark once again as if pointing out flowers can overshadow the grief, the rage, the fear of what’s to come.
Everything here is so beautiful, I tell you, hoping you don’t notice the crack in my voice, the crack in anything.
Everything here is beautiful.
The bookshelf
The #kidlit we’ve been reading in our house this week
The YA pick: The Silence That Binds Us by Joanna Ho
Maybelline Chen isn't the Chinese Taiwanese American daughter her mother expects her to be. When asked, her mom can't come up with one specific reason for why she's proud of her only daughter. May's beloved brother, Danny, on the other hand, has just been admitted to Princeton. But Danny secretly struggles with depression, and when he dies by suicide, May's world is shattered. I preordered this one and it showed up on my doorstep like a little surprise.
The middle grade pick: Red by Liesl Shurtliff
Arian loves a good fairytale retelling and this series is one of his favorites. He counts Red as one of the top picks of the set.
The chapter book pick: Sharks and Other Deadly Ocean Creatures published by DK
The middle kid has been in a reading rut and is leaning heavily on his tried-and-true non-fiction favorites. It is Shark Week, after all.
The picture book pick: A New Kind of Wild by Zara Gonzalez Hoang
A sweet story about a young boy who moves from the forest to the city and feels uneasy in a place “where everything is exactly as it seems” until his new friend Ava shows him what can be. A new and welcome addition to our shelves.
The board book pick: Love in the Wild by Katie Tanis
This book has been a regular favorite of Zadie’s for over a year, which is saying a lot for someone who is less than two years old. Simple, rhyming text and colorful imagery make it engaging for babies and toddlers alike.
*None of these links are affiliate. Buy or borrow your books from wherever you’re able.
The postscript
This made me sob all over again. If you’re a writer or artist, this is an important reminder. A worthy read (thanks for sharing, Colleen). A way to support the victims and families of the Highland Park massacre and the Uvalde massacre, if you can. Loved this interview with Jia Tolentino, particularly her thoughts on Roe, motherhood, and work. Happy tears, if you need them.
And this, from our newest poet laureate, Ada Limón:
Look, we are not unspectacular things. We’ve come this far, survived this much. What would
happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder?
What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No.